


Vodka

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Hunt, Sibling Incest, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean stitches Sam up after a hunt. Sam admits some stuff he probably shouldn't.<br/>(Written for the self-indulgent fic meme: <a href="http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com/249274.html">on LJ</a> or <a href="http://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/84721.html">on DW</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vodka

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runedgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runedgirl/gifts).



"You know I hate vodka," Sam announces, even as he makes a grab it. He wedges the bottle between his knees and tries to twist the cap off one-handed; his other hand isn't in any condition to contribute to the effort, gashed as it is and bleeding worryingly.

"Give that the fuck back," Dean mutters, snatching it away. He sets the cap carefully on the table before handing the bottle over again, dropping into the empty chair as he watches Sam tip back a generous swallow. Sam's grimace would be comical in other circumstances, but Dean just plucks the vodka out of his brother's grip again.

"We good?" Dean checks.

"Of course not," Sam mutters. His eyes are still sharp, but they won't stay that way for long—not with the amount of alcohol he just knocked back. 

Dean moves as gently as he can when he takes hold of Sam's wrist and positions Sam's injured hand on the table between them. The lamp casts sickly yellow light across the gash in Sam's palm. Not so deep after all, Dean realizes with relief, but still bleeding messily over the gray motel towels. He spares an upward glance and catches Sam's eyes—groggier now—then reaches for the first aid kit and gets to work.

He's quick about it—years of experience have made him damn good at stitching—but the cut is a long one, and by the time he's got Sam bandaged up his brother has helped himself to another long drink.

Sam's eyes watch him blearily as Dean cleans away the mess.

"Thanks," Sam says, rising on steady-ish legs once Dean has tucked the first aid kit into the nearest duffle. Dean gives up a tight smile; it's all he can manage. Any night he has to stitch Sammy up is a night he hasn't done his job. What's the point of any of this if he can't keep Sam safe?

Sam's eyes narrow knowingly, his brow furrowing as he crowds forward into Dean's space. Dean retreats—but Sam just follows, the clueless ox, until Dean feels the edge of the bureau digging into his back and has nowhere else to go.

"Stop looking at me like that," Sam says. He's clearly trying to put the weight of command into the words, but the vague slur undermines his efforts to an almost comedic degree. 

"Like what?" 

"Like I'm your biggest fuck-up ever." Sam is glaring now, peering down at Dean like he's trying to look straight through his brother's soul. "I'm fine. You fixed me up great. You can stop worrying." 

"Easy for you to say," Dean retorts dryly. "You're drunk. I bet if we have this conversation again tomorrow you'll sing a different tune." After all, Dean's the reason they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dean's the one who made the tactical call that got them flanked in the first place. Between the wounded paw and the probable hangover, Sam's definitely going to be pissy with him in the morning.

"Dean," Sam says. Heavy, serious, weirdly intent. He's leaning closer, his whole body bracketing Dean in, an unsettling wall of heat. 

Dean opens his mouth to ask what the hell this is, but doesn't manage a single word before Sam crushes in close and—christ, shit, fuckfuck _fuck_ —kisses him. Shock freezes Dean in place, or maybe it's the weight of Sam's body pressing him hard against the uncomfortable edge of the bureau. Sam's tongue sneaks past Dean's lips, darting deep and tasting of vodka, and Dean breathes a startled sound into his brother's mouth.

It takes him a moment to work his hands between them, pressing his palms flat to Sam's chest so he can push his brother away. Sam subsides with reluctance, still hovering close. He peers down at Dean with clouded eyes—desire or alcohol, christ maybe both—and Dean's breath lodges painfully in his throat.

There's damning heat in his own blood, as his body reacts to Sam's proximity—to the kiss, the hard muscles beneath Dean's hands, the unmistakable offer in Sam's eyes. Dean has never once thought about his brother this way. Now he is, and where the revelation should raise nothing but disgust, he finds a hundred more complicated feelings rising instead.

Christ, he can't _want_ this, can he?

"Back off, Sammy." He hates how breathless and unsteady he sounds. 

Sam hesitates before obeying, taking long enough about it that Dean's chaotic pulse kicks even faster. He has just enough time to wonder what he'll do if Sam _won't_ back off, and then Sam takes a jarring step away. Dean's hands fall to his sides, and he stares at his brother.

"I'm not that drunk," Sam protests, looking more like a kicked puppy now than an intimidating wall of intent. 

Dean can't help it. He laughs. It's a jagged sound, half hysterical, and only makes Sam look more put out. With difficulty Dean chokes the laughter down, stowing it behind his ribs where it threatens to cut him deep. He makes himself meet Sam's eyes as calmly as he can and somehow—impossibly—finds a steady enough voice to speak.

"If you think there's actually a chance we're doing this, then you are _definitely_ that drunk." He pauses, inhales carefully. "Jesus, Sammy, what are you thinking? Since when does your to-do list include—" He can't say it, though. He can't even make himself think the word.

"You don't want to?" There's that wounded puppy look again, and Dean mutters a fractured curse. 

"Wouldn't matter even if I did," Dean sidesteps the question in favor of an argument less likely to tear him apart. "You're my brother. That is _never_ gonna happen, you get me?"

The silence is stifling. Dean clenches his hands into anxious fists at his sides, but he keeps meeting Sam's eyes. He puts every ounce of determination into his own expression, needing Sam to believe him. He needs to know that once this conversation is closed they won't be having it again.

Finally Sam nods. When he turns his back, relief turns Dean's legs to jelly. 

"I'm sorry." Sam sounds lost and very, _very_ far away. "I shouldn't have— I'm sorry, Dean. I'll just..." When he moves for the bathroom Dean doesn't try to stop him.

By the time Sam emerges, Dean has already killed the lights and crawled into his own bed. There's nothing but the rustle of sheets from the other side of the room as Sam settles in, a slow exhale that could mean a hundred things. 

Dean dreams that night. Of course he does. He dreams of Sam. He dreams heat and friction and the weight of Sam's body holding him down. 

When he wakes hard and aching, to an empty motel room and the sound of the shower running, he hesitates only an instant before taking himself in hand.


End file.
